It had been raining for days. The stone staircase that led up the mountain was covered in mud. Not that the stairs would have helped anyway, for the majority of the stones were cracked and disheveled from years, no, decades of neglect. Trees of various shapes and sizes loomed menacingly over the trail, their tops obscuring the trail ahead, and their roots creeping up in-between the stone stairs, waiting for would-be climbers to trip and fall to their death. Though obscured by the dark night, the air was murky and heavy from a mix of mist and smoke. Even if she had a torch, it would not help her now.

Tonight I will die in steam.

They said an ancient evil ruled this mountain. Those who dared to step foot on the trailhead looming before her never returned. Rumor had it charred bones littered the trail, the trees, and the caves of the mountain. She was glad the dark obscured the grisly scene.

Yet, she felt more exhaustion than fear. She was well acquainted with fear. Blood-soaked battlefields filled her dreams at night. Her bones had been broken by the ever-crushing stone of the Earthbenders. Her blood mixed in ever-rushing, ever-suffocating streams. She dined with generals, hatched schemes with liars, spies, and murderers. Yet, she feared the only thing that could help her in this word, or the other, was the ancient at the top of the mountain.

Crack!

The aspen-root had done its work. She sprawled, grateful for the soft patch of mud that caught her and had soaked her face and tattered clothes. Looks were the last thing on her mind. She would die soon, after all. But, what could she say to persuade the ancient to help her before it devoured her? She could think of nothing. Perhaps if she were prettier, the ancient might be beguiled long enough for her to speak.

Slowly rising to her feet, she caught a glimpse of a light: the only light she had seen in hours. Tracing the ground with her feet in an attempt to avoid the devilish roots in the path, she slowly made her way to the torch that marked the end of the path. Waiving the torch around the scene uncovered an eery pavilion. Gone were the cracked, neglected stone: polished and mirror-like, black tile replaced it. The pavilion was shaped like a dock, surrounded by an equally mirror-like lake, which was surrounded by dark pine and the walls of a crater. In the center lay a pedestal of water. A mud soaked, blood soaked, and tear soaked face looked back at her from the reflection in the pedestal. Cupping her hands and making ripples in the pedestal, she made a futile attempt to look presentable. When this failed, she looked up and met strangely familiar golden eyes and a swirl of steam. With unknown grace, she bowed and wept.

Great Ancient, please save my husband!